


Name in Vain

by willgrahamchops



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Age Difference, Dubious Consent, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 13:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/344747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willgrahamchops/pseuds/willgrahamchops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Frank corners Mr. Way one day after the lecture. He’s supposed to be walking home, but his parents will probably be proud that he wants to stay late and talk about Jesus or whatever.</i>
</p><p>Shameless porn, in which Gerard leads youth group and is incredibly unqualified.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Name in Vain

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Name in Vain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/482742) by [BamMargera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BamMargera/pseuds/BamMargera)



Frank used to hate youth group. He hated lectures; he hated the other kids; he hated the cross-shaped mints they got when they answered a question right, and most of all, he hated the stupid, stuffy old group leader, Mr. Harrison. He’s not sure where Mr. Harrison is now. Probably dead. He was about a hundred and fifty anyway.

And now it’s run by Mr. Way, who is cool and likes comics and looks so out of place in his pullover robe that Frank’s not sure where he came from or how he ended up here. Frank listens to the lectures now, and he sits up front, in front of Billy Fucking Hart, the fat ugly bald kid who steals Frank’s mints. From his vantage point, Frank can see Mr. Way’s notes and see what’s coming next, and more importantly, he can see the doodles all over his papers.

Frank corners Mr. Way one day after the lecture. He’s supposed to be walking home, but his parents will probably be proud that he wants to stay late and talk about Jesus or whatever.

“Hey,” he says shyly. Mr. Way, who is busy cleaning up the mint wrappers on the floor, pauses and turns to Frank.

“Hello?” He says. “Can I help you with something?”

“Um.” Frank isn’t quite sure what he wants to say; he just knows that he wants to maybe. Like. Hang out. He knows that Mr. Way seems to like him a lot, with how he draws little dragons and things on Frank’s prayerbook before he passes it back, and he always calls on Frank first when he raises his hand, and he tells Frank how great he is at all this Bible stuff. That doesn’t mean Frank knows what to say.

But Mr. Way knows what to say, and that’s nice.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” He asks Frank, tossing his handful of wrappers in the trash.

And wow, Frank really, really does. His parents don’t let him have coffee. It makes him bounce off the walls, they say. Frank thinks it’s pretty arbitrary. “Yeah,” he says, grinning. “That would be great.”

The coffee is already brewed -- Frank knows, because the whole room smells of it all the time, and Mr. Way keeps the pot on his desk because there’s nowhere else to put it. At least he has a desk. The kids just have to sit in a cluster at his feet.

He takes one sip and winces. It’s not too hot, but it’s bitter, nothing like how it smells. He forces a smile, and Mr. Way smiles back.

“I was interested to see that you included me in your prayers this week,” says Mr. Way.

Frank goes red immediately. He completely forgot about that. 

See, they’re supposed to list people and things they want to pray for in their book each week, so they don’t forget, and Mr. Way collects them. Mr. Harrison didn’t use to read them, but Mr. Way does. He reads Frank’s, at least.

“You wrote that you hoped I would have a happy week,” says Mr. Way. “That’s very sweet of you.”

Mr. Way sits down in his chair, which is in front of his desk. It’s where he sits when he lectures and when they have group discussions. When they paint and do crafts -- they do a lot of crafts, now that Mr. Way runs the group -- he sits behind his desk, but otherwise, the chair stays here.

His hair falls in his face, and he keeps brushing it out again. “Come here,” says Mr. Way. He pats his lap.

Frank hesitates, but Mr. Way immediately extends his hand, and Frank doesn’t have much choice but to take it. He gingerly positions himself on Mr. Way’s lap.

“My week is much better already, now that you’re here,” he says. “So I guess your prayer was answered.”

Frank smiles shyly. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Mr. Way is holding his tie, keeping their faces close, and he can really see the bags under Mr. Way’s eyes from here. It must be from all the coffee, he thinks. Frank’s coffee sits abandoned on the desk.

Mr. Way strokes Frank’s hair with his other hand, gently trailing it down his neck to the small of his back. “You’re so beautiful, Frankie,” he says.

Frank doesn’t know what to say. He squirms a little, not exactly trying to get away, but not particularly comfortable. He puts his hands on Mr. Way’s shoulders. Except, Mr. Way takes this as a cue to pull Frank’s tie, bringing their faces together.

Frank isn’t stupid; he knows what this is. This is kissing. This isn’t supposed to happen. 

Mr. Way pulls back. “Open your mouth,” he says.

Frank doesn’t know why he does it, but he does, and then their lips are together again and Mr. Way slides his tongue into Frank’s mouth, hot and slick and wrong. Frank makes a tiny sound of discontent. Mr. Way moves to his lower lip, sucking it into his mouth and working the skin between his teeth, making Frank yelp.

He’s out of breath when they separate again. Mr. Way brushes the hair out of Frank’s face and presses a thumb to his lower lip.

“So responsive,” he says, mostly to himself. “I like you, Frankie. And I want you to like me too.”

Frank twists away from his hand, but he’s still trapped by the one on the small of his back.

“You want to get up?” Mr. Way asks. He removes his hands. “Go ahead. But don’t leave, okay?” And when Frank stands up, unsteady, he stands up too. He’s so much taller than Frank.

“Okay,” Frank says uncertainly. He’s not sure what to do with himself. He doesn’t want to leave, he thinks. He’s warm from head to toe.

Mr. Way steps over to the desk and puts Frank’s coffee on the floor, along with the pot and a few empty cups. “C’mere,” he says, gesturing to the desk. And then his arms are around Frank and he lifts him up onto the top of it, and Frank sort of sprawls out there, supporting himself on his elbows. Mr. Way leans in close until Frank can feel his breath against his cheek. “I wanna do something with you, okay? Because you’re my favorite kid.”

“Your favorite?”

“Yeah,” he says. “So this is special, just between us.” And Frank thinks he knows what’s coming, though he’s not sure exactly how Mr. Way plans to make it work or even how he feels about it, but he wants to. He wants to know.

“Okay,” says Frank. 

Mr. Way smiles at him, and it’s warm and happy, like Frank really is his favorite. He’s still smiling when he hooks his thumbs in Frank’s slacks and works them down off his hips. Frank wriggles to help him, and then he has to toe off his shoes, and eventually he’s left with just one sock and his underwear, and Mr. Way pulls off the sock.

Frank shivers as Mr. Way runs hands up his thighs. He has small hands, for a guy, soft except for the fingertips, which are calloused. 

“I want you to call me Gerard,” says Mr. Way.

“Oh,” says Frank, for lack of something better. “Okay. Gerard.” The name feels strange in his mouth, but Gerard seems to like it, because he closes his eyes briefly and sighs. He strokes further up Frank’s thighs and begins rubbing him though his underwear, and -- oh, oh God. Frank squeaks.

Gerard smiles. “How’s that feel?”

Frank doesn’t know how it feels. “Um,” he stutters. “Um, ah--” and he can’t focus with Gerard touching him there, grinding his palm into Frank.

“Do you like that?”

“Y-yeah,” says Frank. He thinks he does.

He whimpers when Gerard stops, but then Gerard removes his underwear too, and yeah, Frank definitely knows where this was going.

He wraps a hand around Frank, who’s half-hard and can’t keep still, squirming and bucking under Gerard’s touch. It feels so good that he barely notices Gerard’s other hand creeping lower. That is, he doesn’t notice until Gerard shoves a finger inside.

Frank all but screams at the intrusion, wide-eyed and confused. It burns, hurts so bad, and Gerard keeps whispering “shh, you’re okay; you’re okay, Frankie” and stroking him, though Frank’s gone soft now.

“Why--?” Frank asks, blinking back tears.

“This is going to hurt,” says Gerard. He suddenly seems a lot less friendly. “But you’ve gotta take it for me, okay? You have to do what I say.”

“Or what?” Frank spits. He doesn’t know why he let Gerard do it in the first place.

Gerard’s eyes go dark. “Or I’ll tell your parents. If anyone finds out, you can get in big trouble.”

Frank wants to fight back, but he bites his lip. What if his parents find out he kissed Gerard? He wouldn’t be allowed back in youth group, and they would make him go to a different church and he’d be in trouble. They could ground him basically forever.

“You understand?” Gerard asks.

Frank nods. He gets it.

Gerard twists his finger, and Frank gasps sharply. “Go ahead and scream,” says Gerard. “Everybody’s gone.”

But Frank isn’t going to scream, because Gerard said he should be able to take this. Even when Gerard shoves a second finger inside him, Frank just holds his breath and looks up at him defiantly. Except, he starts twisting, and Frank makes noise -- just a tiny little gasp. Gerard smiles at him. Frank’s not quite sure what those smiles mean.

“You know what goes in here?” Asks Gerard, twisting his fingers harshly. And Jesus Christ, it hurts.

Frank shakes his head silently, still biting back his cries.

To his horror, Gerard unzips his pants. 

“No,” Frank says quietly. “No, Mr. Way, please--”

“I told you to call me Gerard,” he says absently, shoving his underwear down to his knees. He’s still smiling, very pleased with himself.

Frank sighs in relief when Gerard removes his fingers, but the respite is short-lived. Gerard spits in his hand, slicks himself up, and shoves awkwardly against Frank. On the third try, it slips in, and then he buries himself completely in one quick stroke. Frank can’t hold it back. He screams.

“Please, no, oh God,” Frank whimpers. 

Gerard isn’t moving yet, but he widens his eyes in reprehension. “Frank,” he says. “I thought I taught you better than to use our Lord’s name in vain.”

Frank bares his teeth. He knows, he knows Gerard could tell his parents, but he’s so angry-- “Fuck you,” he spits. It’s the worst thing he can think of.

Then Gerard grabs his hips with surprising force and thrusts again, so hard that the desk lurches under their weight. Frank groans in pain. “Please, please -- I’m sorry, please stop--” but Gerard doesn’t listen, just keeps slamming into him, keeps rocking the desk and tearing Frank open from the inside. Frank feels like a ragdoll, no longer in control of his body, splitting at the seams.

He realizes that relaxing his muscles makes it hurt less, so he tries to do that. Gerard doesn’t seem to like it, though. He slips an arm under Frank’s shoulders and lifts his head off the desk, holding him close. His grip tightens on Frank’s hips.

“You feel so good,” Gerard whispers. His breath is hot against Frank’s face and Frank can’t get away, can’t relax anymore. He doesn’t answer, resting his head on Gerard’s shoulder.

The hand holding his hips snakes between their bodies and Gerard starts fondling him. It still feels as good as it did at first, but he can’t concentrate on that over the burning pain.

“You like this too,” says Gerard. “You love getting fucked.”

Frank tries to shake his head, as if it will do any good.

“Just agree,” Gerard advises with a small chuckle. “It’ll be over faster that way.” 

He slows his pace, stroking Frank more quickly. “You know I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. “I like you a lot, Frankie. I just want to share this with you. But it’s easier now, isn’t it? Doesn’t hurt as much?”

“Yeah,” Frank says softly. And it doesn’t hurt as much, or at least he’s gotten used to the pain. He’s acutely aware of Gerard’s size, how completely full he feels. Each thrust seems to press against his insides, shoving his heart up into his throat and making it harder to breathe, and he’s never been this close to anybody, not ever. 

“I’m sorry I have to hurt you.”

And Frank wants to say no, you didn’t have to, you’re not sorry, but he wants it to be over more so he agrees, like Gerard told him. “It’s okay,” Frank says. It’s hard to force enough air into his lungs.

When Gerard speeds up again, it doesn’t hurt quite as much. He feels slicker.

Tentatively, he jerks his hips up into Gerard’s hand. He doesn’t want this to feel good, but it does -- it really does, especially when Gerard strokes him harder, breathing heavily above him.

Frank moans unintelligibly.

“Feel good?” Gerard asks, breathless.

“Yeah,” Frank says, and it’s not a lie this time.

“Beg,” says Gerard.

Frank tries to pull back and see his face, but Gerard doesn’t let him. “What do you mean?” He asks.

“If you want more, you have to ask for it,” says Gerard.

And Frank goes hot all over, because he can’t. He can’t ask for this. He doesn’t want it. But then Gerard stops touching him but keeps thrusting into him, and Frank gets this horrible sinking feeling and he has to do it. 

“Um,” he stutters, “p-please? Um, touch me.”

Gerard laughs quietly in his ear. He runs his free hand lightly down Frank’s side, teasing him, going nowhere near where Frank wants him. “Is this what you want?”

“No,” Frank groans. “No, please. Touch me. Um. Like you were. Please.”

“You want me to jerk you off,” Gerard supplies.

“Yes,” Frank moans. Something’s building inside him. He’s desperate. “Jerk me off, please.” He wracks his brain, trying to remember what Gerard had called it before. “Please, f-fuck me.”

Gerard groans above him and instinctively grabs Frank again, stroking him hard and fast. “That. Again,” he grunts.

“Fuck me, Gerard, please,” Frank whimpers. He doesn’t want this to end, not anymore, but he’s also racing toward some sort of finish and he doesn’t want to slow down.

“Yeah,” Gerard moans. “Fuck yeah, Frankie. So fucking tight--”

Gerard almost stills, buried deep in Frank, hips stuttering.

“No,” Frank says. “No, don’t stop,” but Gerard stops, gripping Frank almost too tightly. Frank feels a sting and a rush of wet heat as Gerard pulls out.

There are a few moments of silence, and then Frank opens his eyes, and there’s Gerard’s dick, streaked with red. It takes Frank a moment to realize that he’s seeing his own blood. He’s briefly revolted, but then Gerard shoves two fingers inside him -- ow ow ow -- and starts stroking him again.

“Gerard, please, please,” he whimpers on repeat as Gerard finishes him off. It only takes a few strokes before Frank comes, eyes open, watching Gerard’s lazy smile. He only lets his eyes drift shut once it’s over, completely drained.

“So beautiful, Frankie,” Gerard whispers near his face. “I like you like this, but I have to clean you up. Can’t send you home with my come dripping down your thighs.”

“Yeah,” Frank agrees, not even listening. A few moments later, there’s a tissue against his thigh and Gerard is carefully wiping the mess away, though it doesn’t eliminate the sting.

“Up, up,” says Gerard. “Get dressed. We can talk next week.”

“Yeah,” Frank says complacently. “Next week.”


End file.
